


Pollen

by SaintLilin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Disturbing Themes, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Levi's working through some stuff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-23 08:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20889479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintLilin/pseuds/SaintLilin
Summary: “Are you a ghost?” I ask one sticky afternoon from the balcony of my bedroom. Eren looks up from tending to one of the trees, his muscles stretching and flexing as he shields his eyes from the sun. His chest is naked, tan skin glowing with sweat.“Do I scare you?” he calls back with a casual smile tugging at his lips.A thousand words all filter through my head; everything I could say and how each syntax would be in a confession in itself."You annoy me," is what I settle on, but even that is a glassy answer.Eren is a vexing spirit that has taken residence in my life and refuses to be exorcised. He lingers around like a fruit fly that just won’t go away even though there isn’t any more fucking fruit. Has the ability to make a two story home feel like a single square inch. I’ve always found a way to squeeze to the edges, to avoid direct confrontation until it’s passed and out of my control, but Eren’s decided he’s comfortable waiting.--Following the tragic loss of his mother, Levi inherits both the family estate and insight into the events leading up to her demise. Realizing how close he is to following in her footsteps is the easy part. Accepting help is Herculean.





	Pollen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [before you read]
> 
> there's some pretty heavy themes of suicide, abandonment, paranoia, etc. and also some supernatural(??) shit that i'm probably gonna get hexed for! i welcome it. god knows what else may present itself as i run along with this S O,, please read at your own discretion. the chapters won't have warnings. 
> 
> OH! Maman=mom in french. French jew Levi because i /do/ make the rules.
> 
> Alright, that said. Enjoy, beeches.
> 
> [Pollen MoodBoard](https://pollenfic.tumblr.com)

Maman was like a sloth.

Everything she did was at the pace of falling snow. She seemed to float instead of stride, whisper instead of speak. Her droopy eyes, wiry black hair, and limbs that were treading on gangly only added to her uncanny air. If it weren’t for the pictures I have of her it would have been easier to think I’d simply been raised by a long dead spirit. Maman was long dead, even when her neck sat straight on her shoulders.

I haven’t exited my car yet, haven’t even turned it off. Like one of the kids from town dared to knock on our door, I cower in the driveway. Through the sturdy glass windshield I stare up at my childhood home, praying that lightning might strike it in a freak accident, that it might burst into flames before me. I’ll go to church next Sunday if it does. Crawl there on my knees, if that’s what the big man wants.

The sky is full of puffy white clouds; not a single one even hinting towards grey. Maman and I lit candles for Hanukkah, but that was as far as our religious ties went. I don't think anyone is going to be answering my prayers here soon. 

The front lawn looks like it hasn’t been cut since it started growing in spring, ivy crawling up the side of the stone wall and all through the gutters. The flower bushes lining the stone path to the front door droop low to the ground, hardly any blossoms on them despite the season. It is almost comical how tied maman and the estate are.

Her heart and soul went into the place; always looking to change something here or move something there. A wall was never without strips of tester paint, decorations were always in the middle of being half put up or half taken down--I never knew which it was. I grew up assuming it was because she had an affinity for interior design, that the house was her never-ending work in progress.

Now?

Most people’s definition of interior design included ‘fixing’ or ‘improving’. Maman didn’t care what she changed or what it added so long as it was different. Maman wanted control over the purgatory she had damned herself to.

I dig into one of the dry potted plants for the deadbolt key, wipe off the dirt before sliding it into the lock. A waft of mildew and stale air hit me as soon as the door opens, but underneath it I can smell the dried herbs and burnt incense maman kept, the smoke from her cigarettes. Dirty shoe prints frame the route the police took inside the house, the grey mud mixing with the endless pale scuffs from furniture being dragged from here to there. I can’t tell which belong more than the other. Placing my feet within their silhouette, I let myself be guided through my old home.

Despite the ever changing layout, I'm gripped with a sense of nostalgia as I pass through. There is furniture I’ve never seen in places they weren’t before, but a long abandoned teacup sitting on the edge of a coffee table and a book stretched on its broken spine tell more than they could. I used to sit on maman’s lap while she read in the late afternoons, doing nothing but breathing the same air as her. One hand would curl in my hair while the other held up her book. We’d fall asleep in the living room just as often in our own beds.

Plastic crinkles under my feet when I step into the dining room, two of the four walls in the middle of being painted a pale yellow. There are so many coats that the old paint has begun to crack and peel, the new layers seeping in to temporarily mend the spaces missing. The majority of her houseplants have been moved here, wilting and browning from weeks of being left in the sun neglected.

When I reach the kitchen, I stop and eye the decorative platter in the middle of the island counter. On top of it are three rotten peaches sitting in a sort of triangle, their skin split and almost entirely overcome with fuzzy white mold. That tells me all I need to know, but I peek outside the dusty shutters anyway.

Of course, they’re all still there. Maman’s beloved, disgusting peach trees that look like they've just recently been grafted. They’re the worst part of the house, even in the state it’s in now. Especially in the state it’s in now. The finicky old water heater that, in addition to sounding like a jet taking off, chose when you were and weren’t going to receive a hot shower, the doors that wouldn’t close completely unless slammed a certain way, whatever was causing that god awful mildew smell. They have nothing on the backyard.

Our animosity has stretched on since I was a child, when once a week every summer maman would task me with picking up every single rotten peach that littered the garden’s floor. They were sticky, filled with flies, would attract wild animals who would tear up the garden. Their rotten stench would stick to my skin for days.

Maman loved them.

She’d sit in the garden for hours just to smell the blossoms and spend weeks in the fall spraying them to help fight rot or pest infestations. They were a staple in my life for as long as I could remember; carrying around a basket for maman to fill, sitting under the trees to eat the first peach of the year, helping maman bake pies and cobblers. The cupboards were filled with endless flashcard recipes for salsas, glazes, jams. She’d even make creams with the flowers, carve charms from the pits to wear along her delicate, fragile neck.

Just the thought of stepping out onto the porch and seeing how many moldy peaches have collected on the ground has me feeling sick to my stomach.

The nausea doesn’t waver as I hover around the staircase, finger circling around an empty hole where a railing post should be. From where I stand, I can see rays of white light playing with the dust motes floating about, warm and almost inviting. The muddy prints shatter that filter.

The groan of each step under my weight is deafening in the silent house, my heart pumping pure molasses through my veins. When I reach the top of the stairs I don't look up. Don’t turn my head even an inch to the left. I don’t need to. I can see it out of the corner of my eye.

At the end of the hall, next to the guest bedroom, the folding ladder to the attic is down.

The police must have forgotten to push it back up when they came through, I rationalize, but it doesn’t stop the bile from burning its way up my throat or the hairs on the back of my neck from standing on end.

Half of me expects maman to come down with a box under her arm, decorations or plates she wants to swap out inside. To pass me on the stairs and give me a kiss on the cheek, float through the house like the few weeks were only a fever dream. Maybe the past eight years.

The other half expects me to look up and find her the way the police did.

I don’t think twice about making a beeline for maman's white door. Our bedrooms were the only places her itching hands wouldn't reach--a space familiar and distinctly our own. Salvation. I slam the door shut behind me, my head falling back with a dull thud. As I look around the room I'm overcome with relief.

It's exactly the way I remember it to be.

Despite its size, she always found a way to make it a cluttered, cozy mess. Stacks of books reaching up to my thigh, odd trinkets and random metals placed in bowls, jars and vials full of oil and homemade creams lie around the room. Rounded French doors lead out to a large balcony overlooking the backyard let in sunlight during the day and moonlight at night. Jade colored walls complement the dark wooden furniture and red silk sheets. Dried herbs and flowers hung in abundance from her four post canopy, and I know if I lift her pillows there will be a bag of lavender and some assortment of crystals to help her sleep.

I’m boneless as I sink down onto the mattress, her soft sheets a cool caress on my sweaty cheek. Her scent comes to fully surround me, a mix of warm spices and sweet fruit. The smell that once clung to every inch of the home now only found on her bed. I dig my nose into the sheets to breathe it all in with long, shaky breaths. The faintest hint of black tea tickles the back of my throat and stings the corner of my eyes. It’s distinctly her: smothering and safe.

“Pourquoi cette façon?” I ask, voice a grating whisper in her quiet room. “Reviens pour moi, maman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations :Pourquoi cette façon?--"Why this way?"  
Reviens pour moi, maman.--"Come back for me, mother."
> 
> Big fat thank you to [Hans](https://yourlocalcookiemonster.tumblr.com/) and [ShittyFourEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittyfoureyes/pseuds/shittyfoureyes) for reading over this for me!

**Author's Note:**

> [Pollen MoodBoard](https://pollenfic.tumblr.com)


End file.
